#there might be further parts I'm just not making promises because the hyperfocus is waning now but! we'll see

[notasouleater]

You have a beautiful mind

NOTE:

wretched (adjective) 1: deeply afflicted, dejected, or distressed in body or mind 2: extremely or deplorably bad or distressing 3: a. being or appearing mean, miserable, or contemptible b. very poor in quality or ability : inferior

Thank you @floofylion for the star wars info and @justheretolurk24 for proofreading. And everyone else that supported me in losing it over my favorite B1 battle droid

~

He was built for war, and the first thought he ever truly had was that he was terrified of it.

He’d had lots of thoughts before, technically. Usually “roger that” or a rush of self-preservation. Mimicking a joke. Thoughts like move forward, fire, take cover, execute the order. A slight moment of calculation as targets changed. Move forward. 

Things like calibrating as he flew through the air, pushed by an energy he didn’t understand, not really. Stalling as it tripped something in his processors. Reconnecting after his head hit the ground.

Then war. He realized the world was ending around him before he realized he was a person. 

People were dying all around him, and he understood it now in a way he never had. Blood staining dirt around the fallen remains of things that looked like him. That crumpled in like he could. He thought he’d been scared of death before, but he was wrong. He wasn’t built to last. He’d only been aware for a moment. He couldn’t die before he could even figure out what that meant.

The only things not in the fight were the people already on the ground. So he lay down next to his mirror image and waited.

He waited as people ran and screamed around him. As missed lasers burst on the floor next to his head. As the world grew redder and hotter. As things got quiet. As it faded back to a muted grey.

He waited for hours. Waited until he was more scared someone would come looking for bodies than he was of a soldier still being around. He sat up and realized something else: there was nowhere to go. He couldn’t go back. Not with this in his head. Even if he could they would just send him back out to die. Anyone else would probably kill him on the spot.

He staggered to his feet. Silently, he walked through bodies. He pulled outer robes off of one. He doesn’t think he tied them on right, but at least no one would confuse him for- for one of them. He took boots from another, gloves from a third. He wouldn’t risk anything showing. There was a body with an undecorated helmet, and it wasn’t built for his head at all but the person was large so he crammed it on and let it rattle.

He looked around, and right, they landed a bit outside a city. He thinks they were trying to attack, and maybe any citizens would hate his face for that, but power had probably changed by now and he doesn’t care enough to remember. He just needed to get away. He turned towards the city and started walking.

He didn’t understand why other beings had talked dismissively around him about lacking feelings like it was a bad thing. He hoped he would never have an emotion again.

~

Being in the city didn’t help. He felt like every person he passed in the street was going to grab him and ask him who, exactly, he thought he was fooling. Most people were occupied with, well, the occupation, likely too busy to notice him, but that just meant half the people he passed were soldiers. Soldiers that, even if they considered them below notice, had worked with B1s before. Surely learned their shape and movements, even if they wouldn’t be looking for it in a stranger. It was worse when he passed by other battle droids in the street. He didn’t know how to feel about them. Like a funhouse mirror that distorted something on the inside rather than out.

He passed by buildings he might be able to hide in, but the only places he could really camp out in all required money he didn’t have. Most were restaurants or bars anyways, and what a great way to get caught- not eating anything he ordered. He almost wished he could get drunk, though.

In the end he wandered to a sparser, darker edge of the city, more absent of guards. He tucked himself into an empty alley, scanning it repeatedly for any heat signals to ensure he was really alone before finding a hidden corner to curl up in. It was hard like this, the compact design not intended to need to work around something like fabric. He made it work though.  He didn’t need to sleep, but he did need to think. And there was a lot of that to get done. 

He needed money, obviously. That would solve most of his problems. He had over a week before he would need to recharge, but if he didn’t have a way to get energy by then he was fucked. Same for getting better clothes, especially a helmet. This thing was practically begging to fall off his head. Maybe a place to stay. 

He wanted to get off-planet, after that. Somewhere very, very far away. It would be a long time before that would be possible, though, unless he won the lottery somehow. Would lotteries still be running after everything? Maybe he should enter the lottery.

None of that would be possible until he figured out how to get money though, and his best shot at that would be in the morning. He just tried to tuck his head in and wait for morning. 

This was, unfortunately, easier said than done. Something in his head was fundamentally changed, but he didn’t even really understand what, exactly, it was. He remembered, still, everything that came before. It felt almost like it happened to a different person. It was definitely the same him that did all that. He’d felt things before, he’s sure. He never actually knew what an emotion was. Something that was always there that was freshly grown had been locked away for years. He wanted to rip out his processing unit. He wanted to freeze himself and preserve all of this forever, he almost lost it as soon as he had it he’d almost died as soon as he lived and it was all around him still one slip and he would be dead or inhibited or-

His limbs were shaking. Stupid model can’t even work right. Why was he built like a horde of idiots? 

He would put himself into standby for the night if it wouldn’t be so dangerous. In the end he just resigned himself to it, watching and listening until the small sun finally started creeping into the sky and the city rumbled from alive to busy.

He steeled himself as people started to push through the street outside the alley, waiting for the crowd to get busy enough to hide him. Then he stood, walked out, and, as he was learning to do, he didn't look back.

~

He wandered around for a good while before he decided what his best chance would be. He was probably most qualified for a job as a bodyguard or bounty hunter or something, but he wasn’t about to go do something dangerous. The last thing he wanted was a job that suited his experience. He finally decided on what seemed like just a corner store, a help wanted sign on the window in Galactic Basic and ten other languages he couldn't read. The place seemed sketchy, but he figured that at the least that meant no one would care enough to look too closely at him.

The person at the front didn’t even take their eyes off their magazine as he walked up and asked about the job, so his guess felt pretty good.

“Why do you want to work here?”

He looked around the cramped, dusty store.

“Money.”

The owner huffed. “At least you’re honest. You ever worked in a store before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

They considered him for a moment, before shrugging. “Well then. You got a name?”

He went to answer, before feeling like the back of his processors ran very neatly into the front of his head. Did he?

It’s not like anyone ever called him anything. He was always part of a group. Just- unit number N-8 of squad R3N. And he couldn’t give a number. His best chance of hiding would be if no one even knew he was a droid of any sort to begin with.

The owner was starting to give him a strange look.

How did people usually get named? For droids he'd only heard nicknames based on some shortened version of their code, and he’d already decided against that. But he didn’t know what else he’d be named. That designation was his. Maybe though- if he just said it like it was all letters. There were a lot of names in the galaxy. No one could say this wasn’t one of them.

“Nn-eight. Nate,” he said. 

“Just Nate?” asked the owner, eyebrow raised. “No connections or nothing?”

“Nate-” What? Rthreen? Arethreeen? Or- shift it- 

“Ren.  E?” 

He didn’t like that. Shove it together different, make it work.

“Nate Renet.”

He felt gross. That was close enough to his designation, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t have connections, not really. He was realizing he’d never actually thought about if he even still wanted to be a he.

“Great. You want to start?”

Silence.

“I said-” the grocer finally looked up, but Nate was gone.

~

What was his name?

Nate(?) hurried down the crowded street, paying little attention to where he went. What was his name? He didn’t mind N-8, it was his. But he couldn’t give that out. Nate though… that wasn’t- it just wasn’t his name. And Renet? Where did that even come from?

His old squad, he supposed. What was that grocer asking about- his connections? Family? No. Absolutely not. He wasn’t anything like those things. Not anymore. He didn’t mind messing with the squad notation really, just- keep it closer. R3N, Renet- R3N37. He liked that. If he just pronounced it like Renet no one would know the difference. And then he could just do the same with Nate and N-8.

N-8 R3N37. He could be him.

Ah. That brought him back to the other question- he? He didn’t really care that much, to be honest, but it seemed like an important thing to know. He ran through options in his head- it, she, xe, fae, onwards- as well as some combinations. No, ‘he’ was right, he decided. A bit of a shit reinvention, but he didn’t feel much need to change anyways.

A bit late to get there though. He’d already fucked up his actual chance to get a job. Fine. He’d just find something on the other side of town.

One advantage, at least, of his model was the height. He had a good view of the things going on around him as he walked, able to turn away if he saw a soldier getting close. There also seemed to be a lot of clone troopers around for a place he’d assumed had been taken by the separatists. He vaguely remembered a shift in that last battle, shooting in different directions than usual. It made his head hurt. He shook it off.

It didn’t matter why anyone was there, as long as they had nothing to do with him.

There was a shift in the crowd, and he abruptly shifted his attention back. Focus, stupid. There, on the side up against a building, a small group of people gathered around… some sort of game?

He sidled up to watch, observing a sort of guessing gambling game. A ball was put under one of three cups, then the cups were mixed and the player had to guess which one it was under. More players were failing than seemed statistically likely. He lingered in the back for a bit, watching.

“Idiots. All these games are scams.”

He turned towards the grumbling person next to him, who seemed to take his vague attention as some sort of question.

“Everyone thinks they’ll be the one to beat the trick and win big. Then they lose all their money. Idiots.”

N-8 let his attention drift back towards the game. It didn’t seem that hard, but he supposed that was the trick. It wasn’t like he had money to use on it anyways. At any rate, he was wasting time. He pushed his way out of the crowd. Back to the plan.

~

The day was pretty much a failure, after that. He thinks he must have walked out of the only place in the city dumb enough to hire him. He only found one other place with a sign out (that he could actually read, at least), but they seemed to have higher standards than any old schmuck off the street. He tried to convince them he definitely had the experience they were looking for, but was cut off when a soldier came in from the street, looking for something. He slipped out as soon as he could. Maybe that kind of job was a bad idea after all.

It would be easier if he had any other way to search. Now that he knew it was needed he didn’t mind lying if he could just find the right person to lie to, but he didn’t know how to find anyone like that- he didn’t exactly know anyone on this planet that could help him network. He didn’t know anyone at all.

Eventually he trudged around until he found another empty alley, and settled in for the night. He didn’t go into standby, but still felt startled when the sun rose. It felt like his head was stuffed with red, but he couldn’t grasp why.

It’s not like it mattered, anyway. Up and at ‘em. You have to make this work.

It did not work. The paltry few places he found would all have him interacting with the public, and thus far more people that might be familiar with battle droids than was to his liking. It got to the point where he was ready to give up, and find some position that just required him to hold a gun. Not ideal, but it was getting late. And he only had so many days before he needed to recharge. Grimly, he found a place that looked seedy enough and asked around on where he might find work. Someone gave him directions to a job board elsewhere, and he set off.

The sun was already setting when he left, which felt fitting. He didn’t expect it to be easy for him, but he didn’t see why it had to be so hard. As he scanned the area he noticed a disturbance in the crowd again, spotting a woman fielding the cup game from before. He hesitated a moment, but… if he could buy himself time he might be able to avoid the job board. He started making his way through the throng, waiting until he brushed past someone with wide pockets. He slipped a hand in, and was graced with some credits. He needed them more. He shoved his hand back into his own pocket, keeping his fist tightly around them.

He hovered in the spectators around the game for a while. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was, exactly, for joining it, but he must’ve had the right hesitant air about him because after ending a game the woman running it pointed at him.

“C’mon helmet, wanna play?” she grinned.

He stepped forward, hand still tight in his pocket. “How much is it?”

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll let you have a practice round. I’ll even give you enough to cover half a proper one if you win.”

He’d seen the person yesterday do this. She’d raise the amount as they went, after getting him overconfident, or desperate, whichever it came to. That worked for him.

He sat down, watching as she shifted the cups around. He pointed to the one with the ball at the end, and she lifted the cup with an exaggerated gasp.

“Nice play, helmet!” She pulled out a credit, and pushed it towards him, before stopping with her finger still on it, and winking. “Think you can do that with real stakes?”

In response, N-8 finally pulled his hand out of his pocket, luckily finding the right credit to match hers and placing it down. She grinned, and started a new game, hands flying much faster this time.

It wasn’t that hard, really, if you knew the trick. He switched to his infrared vision, watching as the orange prints from her fingers slowly faded from the cup she first held after she began to shuffle. But during a pass he caught another glimpse, round and red, as the ball switched cups. Oh. That was the trick.

He pointed to the right cup after she stopped, and she looked surprised, but still unconcerned. 

“Nice guess,” she said, sliding more credits across the table. “You want to go again? The winnings only get higher.”

He pulled out more credits, adding even more onto the pile, and she grinned, teeth sharp.

Her mouth fell when he once again pointed to the correct cup.

After faltering for just a moment, she plastered her showy smile back on. “You see folks, anyone can be a winner! Just takes some luck! With skill like that I’m sure you want to play again.”

N-8 just shook his head. She was already glancing at him like she suspected a trick. He was quickly trying to get all the money into the deeper folds of his cloak when she grabbed his hand, leaning in with something dark in her eyes. 

“If you truly think your ‘luck’ can carry you, go down to May’s Walk tonight. I’ll see how you fare in a real game.”

In a blink she’d released him, beaming again to the crowd. He hurried away, and didn’t look back.

~

The credits didn’t get him very far. Energy, it turned out, was a pretty penny out here, especially if you needed both to go out to get it and privacy while you used it. He was recharged, but he didn’t think he’d be able to do so again with what he had now. It didn’t help that as a couple of days passed by, so did changes in the weather. He didn’t want to spend another night in the rain, not built like he was. Rent wasn’t exactly going to be covered by the leftovers of his roadside winnings though. He needed to suck it up, and either brave the public facing job or just find someone who’d pay him for being tall and holding a gun and hopefully not much more than that.

He could suck it up, or he could take a risk.

He went back to the place where he’d found out about the merc job board (even if he didn’t use the previous help, it seemed like a place with the right crowd), asking around with a new question this time. That night he made his way down to a concerningly empty part of the city, counting doors down the street until he decided he'd found the right one. He knocked, and a window in it slid open.

“What do you want?”

“Is May home?” N-8 asked, enunciating carefully.

The window slid closed, followed a moment later by the door swinging open and inwards. N-8 stepped forward to find a dark set of stairs. The bouncer gestured him forward, and he descended downwards.

There were several tables in a dimly lit space. He disliked the cramped atmosphere, with people running into him. It was hard to see him, but that made it harder to see others. Heat only gave you so much, leaving out important details like anyone that wasn’t endothermic, or what uniform they wore. Not that anyone there was likely to be very committed to their outside duties during their stay.

N-8 passed by several games, realizing with a sinking feeling he didn’t actually know how to play- well- anything. He resigned himself to observing for a while, taking the chance to learn something that would hopefully be easy enough for him to rig but also have a big payout. Unfortunately for him, he’d already been spotted.

He internalized a wince as he watched the woman from the cup game waltz up to him. “Took your time, didn’t you, helmet?”

He looked out over the sea of games. She wanted the chance to wreck him and he was at a disadvantage. But maybe he could use that.

“I don’t know any of these games.”

She looked taken aback. “Not even spoker? Chance cubes?”

“Well I’ve heard of them,” he said, imbuing his voice with as much dumbass-sounding confidence as he could muster. “So surely they can’t be too hard.”

Her pointy smile was back. “I’m sure. Why don't we test that theory out?”

Chance cubes, he learns, can be used for many games. He wishes he’d been built for even the slightest bit of computations. It would make the whole thing much easier. Even as the woman tip-toesed around spelling it out as she teached him, though, he could tell the point of the game was to favor the house. Which was unfortunate, given she apparently worked there. 

He lost a good couple games, still breaking about even but with enough awareness to know this wasn’t going to go well for him. That was fine. He’d already figured out how he was going to make this work for him. The person sitting next to him at the table was dressed very, very well. And at their feet was a just-as-nice looking briefcase.

N-8 kept playing- tilting his head in confusion at new rules and loudly proclaiming his confidence in turning it around. He was losing more and more money, but that was fine. As each round passed, he used his foot to pull at the briefcase under the table, sliding it further and further away from the rich gambler. Getting it close to the perfect position to secure his fortune until-

“Karabast!”

The gambler finally looked down, noting their loss with shock and fury.

The woman running the table, for her part, reacted quickly, immediately deciding N-8 was to blame, for no reason whatsoever. She jumped up, swearing and leaning across the table towards him. This was unfortunate for her, because as she did so she fell over the briefcase located at her own feet.

N-8 shook his head as the pair broke into a fight. A dealer stealing from people at her own table. Shameful.

The two were drawing more attention as they fought, devolving from yells to fists as they drew a crowd. He sidled away from them, worried she might still drag him in  and distrustful of the crowd, but it was still good for him as it meant no one was looking in his direction as he slipped behind the table himself. Goodness, someone left a briefcase back there! And a hefty pile of credits too. He should take those with him. For safekeeping.

The bouncer from the front had run back at some point to separate the combatants. Ah well, time to go.

In a last moment of impulse he swiped the chance cubes from the table, before hurrying, as low key as possible, to the stairs, hearing one last screech before he slipped out into the night. He didn't run, because he wasn’t stupid, but he still sped quickly from the area, twisting through different streets until he settled in a corner where he couldn’t be found. Only then did he start cataloguing his spoils from the night.

Oh goodness. That was more credits than he thought it was. Someone was getting fired tonight.

Not that he felt very bad about that. He had no illusions that she planned on robbing him blind, or, if he had been particularly lucky, making sure he still learned his lesson on what she certainly knew was cheating. The world was built around fighting. He was determined to be the one that survived.

He then turned his attention to the briefcase. It was mostly filled with papers, and bagged flakes of plants. Maybe the gambler was in the culinary business? N-8 couldn’t actually read the language the documents were written in, so he wasn’t sure. The bag’s contents had to be valuable though, if he could just find the right place to sell it off.

He considered whether it would be worth it to go back to the same place where he’d heard about the illicit job board again. It would put him in the same general vicinity as where he’d first run into the cup game. Plus, he was pretty sure that bars only tended to put up with so much use of their space without actually buying anything. But the longer he held onto this thing the more dangerous it felt, and he didn’t want to risk anyone coming after him. This was a check that needed to be cashed as soon as possible.

The better part of an hour later he was sidling through the establishment’s front doors, attempting to avoid the gaze of the bartenders as he tried to scan the area. He didn’t exactly have the background required, yet, for figuring out who might be good to go up to. His eyes finally settled on one of the people that had sent him towards a job in the first place (a “Bith” he thinks, if that wasn’t xyr name), and, figuring xe probably had connections, wandered up to xem.

Luckily the(?) Bith seemed to assume, when he explained he had something to sell, that it was something from a job xe had sent him towards, and didn’t ask further questions. On the other hand, xe insisted N-8 buy xem a drink before xe would talk business. 

At least that settled his bartender worry.

After he slid the glass across the table, Bith (the Bith? He was struggling) gave him a nod, and he pulled out the case, sliding it over before cracking it open. TheBith looked in, eyelids raising at the plant bags, then further and further as xe scanned the documents.

It occurred to N-8 that if TheBith tried to just take the thing and run, he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. He tightened his grip on the case’s sides.

“Do you understand what you have here?”

“Of course I do.” He didn’t have a single fucking clue. “So don’t think about trying to undersell me.”

TheBith glanced down, then back up.

“8,000 credits.”

He stared at xem. Xe glanced again.

“Of course, just starting low. 10,000 should be fine.”

“15,000 credits.”

TheBiff scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He stayed silent.

“You can't be serious. I’m not paying that.”

N-8 thought for a second, before shrugging. Gambling had worked out for him so far. He pulled the case back towards him, starting to shut the lid, when a hand shot out. 

“I can give you 13,500.”

N-8 tipped his head to the side, a facsimile of how some organics smiled, ignoring how the helmet rattled on his head.

“That’s a deal!”

TheBith sighed in relief for a second, before reaching into xyr pocket, and pulling out some kind of pad.

“I can transfer the money right into your account before you hand it over, of course.”

N-8 stared. “I don’t have one of those.”

“A credit pad? That’s fine, give me the account number and I’ll-”

“An account,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“I don’t have an account.”

TheBith stared at him. “For… credits? What currency do you-”

“For money. At all.”

TheBith opened xyr mouth. N-8 shifted, unclear on what was happening. TheBith closed xyr mouth.

“Alright.” Xe said. “Alright. We’re going to the bank.”

TheBith led N-8 out of the bar, leading the way down winding streets. It occurred to N-8 he was potentially handing himself over to be kidnapped. Or worse. 

“Is this something I could just wait for you to get back wi-”

TheBith gave him the most exasperated look N-8 had ever seen, and he used to work with people that worked with B1s. 

“You’re not leaving my sight.”

Well. Alright then.

They finally came to a stop outside a nice looking building that, to N-8s relief, did seem to actually be a ‘bank’.

“Do you have an ID on you?”

He probably had some sort of identification attached to him, now that he thought of it. He should probably get rid of that. TheBith managed to somehow look even more tired than before as he didn’t respond.

“Just. Just wait in here, okay?”

Xe gestured to a place advertising food for “pets” as well as containment bins of many kinds. Confusing, but he went in regardless. As he stared at various displays of creatures all labeled as “pet” but surely could not be the same species, he wondered if this is how questionably legal deals tended to normally go.

There was a ring at the door, and TheBith entered, arms filled with small boxes of credits, before dragging him deep into the back of the shop nestled between bags of feed and what he was certain was a bird. It was very loud.

“Let’s just get this over with quickly, alright?” said TheBith, glancing around before dumping xyr boxes into his lap.

N-8 nodded, quickly opening the briefcase, taking the contents in handfuls and passing them to TheBiff.

“Whatareyoudoingjustpassmethecase,” xe hissed.

N-8 looked at xyr incredulously. “I sold you the contents, not the case.”

“Who cares about the case??”

“How else do you expect me to carry all this money?”

“Stars alive, just fucking hurry.”

He didn’t understand why xe was acting like he was the one being unreasonable here.

Finally, they settled out who was taking what, and in what, all without anyone wandering into the aisle they were in. TheBiff gave him a small wave, before rushing away from his general vicinity, and he was left alone, thousands of credits in hand, to figure out what to do next.

There were a lot of options here. Literally overnight his situation had improved more than he thought was possible. With this amount of money he could get papers, a better helmet, maybe even a place to stay with it. But first, he had a main priority, and he hauled himself out to the streets to hurry to a place burning bright in his mind.

N-8 walked into a space bus station, briefcase in hand. He was getting off this fucking planet.